


Tzedakah

by voodoochild



Category: Rent
Genre: Backstory, Judaism, M/M, Pre-Canon, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-07
Updated: 2010-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:15:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tzedakah", derived from the Hebrew root Tzadei-Dalet-Qof, meaning righteousness, justice or charity. It is said to be the highest of all commandments. Mark Cohen has never forgotten this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tzedakah

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Yuletide 2007 Challenge. Much love to carla_scribbles, for being the best beta in the universe. Able to put up with my tense-shifting, lack of syntax, and unique spelling quirks with tons of good grace.

Mark used to measure his life in reels of film. He now measures in the number of holy days that can pass that during which, some life-changing event doesn't happen to him.

There was Angel, five days after Yom Kippur. There was Roger, the day after that, leaving for Santa Fe. There was Mimi getting sick two days before Hannukkah. Mark doesn't know if that's a sign that he should have been a better Jew, or that bad shit will happen when you lose your faith.

Mark's not really good with loss. In Angel, Collins lost something Mark's never had to lose, and sometimes Mark envies that. Someone living for him, because he doesn't have AIDS and he's always the one people leave behind. Someone to say "I love you" without kissy faces and Pookie tacked on to the end of it.

Someone who makes him want to step out from behind the camera and live his life like it's worth living.

Mark sees everything - he can't not - but when he closes his eyes and remembers the worst night he can think of, it's almost two years before that Halloween they lost Angel. Back when Benny was still human and before Maureen got Mark in her fuschia-nailed clutches. Back when there was no Joanne or Mimi, but no Angel, either. When Collins was streaking naked through the Parthenon and sending them postcards of the graffiti he'd scrawled on Trevi Fountain.

September 20th, 1995.

Rosh Hashanah.

Just after they lost April. The beginning of the longest ten days of Mark's life.

~*~*~*~

When he was young, Mark's family always kept Sabbath.

They had Friday night dinner, where Mom cooked roast beef and baked potatoes so loaded with cheese and sour cream you could just feel your arteries constricting. Dad snuck pieces of challah to Lucky (their dog, which he took with him in the divorce) and Cindy never failed to knock over Mark's wine before he'd even gotten a sip.

Saturday mornings, he and Cindy got up at 7 for yeshiva and went down the street to the Scarsdale Y to listen to Rabbi Kessler read Torah in his high-pitched, droning voice. They would walk over to the synagogue and meet Dad for services.

Cindy was the well-behaved one. Mark would twist and turn on his bench, watching the other people - Mr. Adelman, his friend Luke's father, reading gun magazines in between the pages of his Torah; old Mrs. Rosenberg, who smelled of gefilte fish even when it wasn't Passover and applied lipstick every seven minutes like clockwork; Danny Greenberg, who beat Mark up every day after school, kicking the bench in front of him.

In Scarsdale, being Jewish wasn't a big deal. Everyone was Jewish - unless you went to Saint Xavier's up on Rockwell Street. But those were the Catholics and they kept to themselves. Being Jewish was just the way it was, and he'd never considered any other way of living. You went to synagogue, prayed to G-d, sat shiva for the dead, and showed respect to the Torah. You made your bar mitzvah and had a chuppah at your wedding to a nice Jewish girl.

And Mark would have gone slowly insane.

He liked Judaism, he really did. He just hated the trappings and expectations. He hated that it had made Mom and Dad scream and throw things and have custody battles over. Dad wanted Mom to convert fully, and Mom couldn't give up childhood customs like confession and midnight mass on Christmas Eve.

So Dad left. Just took off one day, leaving a note telling Mom she could have the house and Cindy and Mark if he got the dog. That was five Rosh Hashanahs ago. Five recitations of the _kol nidrei_ without truly forgiving Dad for what he'd done.

He didn't know what real forgiveness was, until he met Roger Davis.

He'd been wandering down 42nd - no place to go, his camera, his bike, his beat-up backpack, and eight hundred and sixteen dollars all he had to his name - and heard someone picking out "Musetta's Waltz" on a guitar in Bryant Park. Mark couldn't do anything but stare at first - just open-mouthed stare at this tattooed, pierced punk rocker strumming along to an Italian opera - but he'd had to stop when the guy looked up.

"What, rock stars can't enjoy Puccini?", he'd said, smirking at Mark.

Mark couldn't think of anything to say at first except the obvious - "Well, aren't rock stars usually familiar with chord progressions? Cause I'm pretty sure that song has them."

He steeled himself to be jumped - what the hell, Cohen, who insults random guitar-playing guys in a strange city if they don't have an innate desire to be beaten up? - but the guitarist just burst into unrepetent laughter, sniffling and wiping his nose on the military-issue jacket Mark would later learn he'd stolen from a thrift store.

"You're okay, kid. And I'm Roger."

Mark took his hand, squeezing calluses and bitten-off nails briefly. "No last name?"

"You haven't even told me your name. You could be a Mafia hitman from Red Hook for all I know."

"I'm a Jewish kid from Scarsdale," Mark said, with a roll of his eyes. "And I'm a filmmaker. Mark. Mark Cohen."

"Good to meet you, Mark Cohen. I'm Roger Davis, aspiring rock star from Brooklyn - and this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

A distractingly attractive guitarist who played Puccini and quoted Casablanca? Oh, this was definitely the beginning of something, all right. As he rested his bike against a nearby tree and clambered up to sit on the back of the bench next to Roger, who'd abandoned "Musetta's Waltz" for a surprisingly in-key rendition of "Come As You Are", Mark felt strangely at ease.

Roger Davis, it turned out, was not only a decent guitarist, but the only person who didn't immediately freak out when Mark pulled out his camera and quietly started filming him.

~*~*~*~

Mark had moved in with Roger (and Benny) the very same day, and after that, the most Judaism he practiced was an aversion to bacon and uttering the occasional "oy vey" when Collins sent his latest postcard. He didn't realize he'd missed Chanukkah until after New Year's, and after that, he would only remember the high holy days in passing.

Purim. Pesach. Shavuot.

While they came and went, winter bled into spring, and it was in the spring that Roger met April. Mark liked her - you couldn't help but like someone like April, who was intelligent and funny and never batted an eye at Mark's filming - and it was good that he did, because the Well-Hungarians played every gig they could find, and April was the only company he had sometimes.

He liked April, but she was probably as close as you could get to a functioning addict - she knew when to cut back - but Roger? Roger just didn't know when to stop. Nothing mattered to him except the music and the drugs, and sometimes that meant April and Mark.

And Roger was all Mark had, so he kept his mouth shut and watched the needles pile up in their bathroom. Watched Roger get thinner, his cheekbones sharpening his face into a brittle mask. Like he was only one moment away from shattering.

Mark fucking hated it. He tried everything from hiding Roger's needles to outright begging Roger to sober up. He would film Roger while he was high - Roger loved the camera most when he was on drugs, running his fingers over the shutter like it was the E-string on his Fender - and show it to him, wanting him to see what he was doing to himself.

It wasn't enough. Not when Roger would blow him off or laugh at him, saying he was being neurotic again. Telling him to just try and stop him.

And prayer? The one thing Mark had once believed in above all else? Roger would throw it in Mark's face, during the worst of their fights - "it won't do any good, Mark! You're just wasting your time!" - and every time, Mark would swear that next time would be different. He'd throw out Roger's needles and drag him and April to rehab, no matter what ugly truths Roger threw in his face.

Every single time.

And he never got his chance, because on August 29th, April and Roger got their HIV tests back, and there was a big red "positive" stamp at the top that made Mark's heart sink straight into his stomach. Roger stormed out to drink himself into oblivion, as usual, and April locked herself in their bathroom all night. Mark sat outside the door, listening to her cry, and trying to tell her that everything would be alright when they both knew that was a lie.

He still remembers the last thing she said to him before she shut the door: "Take care of him, okay? He'll need you."

She'd already decided, before she'd even walked into that bathroom, and Mark still won't do it, even two years later - won't ask himself if there was something he could have done to stop her. How could he have known she'd hidden the razor blades two months before they'd even gotten tested? How could he have known she didn't want to live with AIDS?

And then she was quiet, and Mark picked the lock to find her lying on the floor, surrounded by far, far too much blood.

But he kept his promise. He took care of Roger, when the clinic threw him out after three weeks of non-payment. Roger came home to an empty apartment and only Mark to care if he took his AZT and stayed off the smack. Collins was back at MIT and Benny was married to Allison. Mark couldn't even talk him into calling his mother in Brooklyn - Roger said she'd never stay sober enough to make the trip into Manhattan, so why bother?

Just Mark and Roger against detox from a year's worth of heroin abuse.

~*~*~*~

He was naïve enough at the time to think they could make a difference. That he and Roger could overcome anything, because friendship is thicker than drugs, right?

Detox, Mark learns, is a bitch.

The clinic had put him on methodone, which was supposed to wean him off the heroin. They said he was clean, and maybe he was, medically, but the psychological craving was still there. Roger was sedated most of the time at the clinic, but he's awake now and bypassed the bargaining and denial phases of dealing and gone straight for anger.

"Fuck you, Cohen - just leave! Go back to Scarsdale and mommy and whatever it is about your nice Jewish life you ran away from!"

Over the previous three days, Mark's become so inundated to Roger's screams and profanity that he just sighs and ducks the swing Roger aims at his head. It's not the first punch Roger tried, and it won't be the last. He's already got a nice split lip from when the paramedics first dropped Roger off at the loft, and Roger saw the bathroom. Mark and Benny and Collins scrubbed it raw, but something still feels off about it - a metallic smell they can't get out, even under an entire can of Pine-Sol.

"Weren't you listening? I'm. Not. Leaving."

He pins Roger's fists to the bed (Mark's bed, because Roger's still smells like booze and grapefruit perfume and April) with his hands, and lets the weight of his body atop Roger's legs do the rest of the work. If Roger struggles himself into exhaustion, all the better.

"Fuck you," Roger rasps out again, and shoves at Mark. Mark has to nudge his glasses back up using his shoulder, or Roger will probably throw them across the room. Again.

"Shut up and drink some water before you collapse from dehydration."

Roger's still more muscular, but Mark has sobriety and surprise on his side. Doesn't stop Roger from screaming and snarling and threatening for another twenty minutes. Mark does what he does best, holds on through everything, and in the end, Roger flops back onto the bed and reaches for the glass.

As he downs the water, Mark backs off to look Roger over.

He's a mess. He's already torn holes in his Sex Pistols tee - Mark knows he'll be pissed when he snaps out of it and sees them - and he's been wearing the same pair of jeans for the past two days because it's enough of a fight to get Roger to eat, drink, and go to the bathroom without factoring clothing into the mix. He smells and he kicks and he's alternated from sweating and swearing to complete lapses in consciousness - and Mark's not sure he can keep this up for much longer.

Fuck, Roger doesn't look anything like that boy who was playing Puccini in Bryant Park anymore. His body's thinned out until all Mark can see when he looks at him is track marks and angled bones that slice up everyone who tries to get close to him.

Mark's got scars now, too. Does that mean he's allowed to hurt as much as Roger?

~*~*~*~

The days are bad, Mark has come to realize, but the nights are worse.

During the days, Roger screams and fights himself into silence. He'll cut himself off mid-word, and just - deflate. Turn his back on Mark and curl into a tight ball, choked sobs punctuating each clatter of his teeth. He'll let Mark force food and water down his throat and change clothes without calling Mark "fucking jerk" or "cocksucker".

(He doesn't know where Roger gets off with throwing stones at Mark, who's had two boyfriends in New York and barely done anything - when Roger's been getting his dick sucked every night after gigs by anything with a pulse.)

Daylight hides a lot of things, though. When it's night, not even the drone of generators and the screeching of tires and sirens on Avenue A can mask Roger's shuddering in Mark's arms. During the day, Roger shoves Mark away and grips the blanket so Mark can't see how badly his hands are shaking; at night, Mark holds Roger's hands still, lacing their fingers together so Roger won't miss the feel of the syringe or the heat of the candle. During the day, Roger turns his back on Mark when he changes clothes - at night, Mark can count every rib under his own borrowed pajama top (because even Roger's clothes smell like April).

At night, Roger apologizes.

"Mark? Mark, listen to me . . . I don't deserve this. You shouldn't have to . . . should've just left me in Bryant Park . . . I'm, I - I just - I'm sorry. I hate this. Hate that you h-have to do this."

The hell of it is - Mark's not sure if Roger's lying or not. Roger can lie with his voice, like any good singer, manufacture pain and regret in the change of a chord, but not with his eyes. Mark's always been rather good at it, because the double-protection offered by his glasses and a camera lens can fool everyone that would care enough to look.

Like Roger, who suddenly flicks his lighter and touches the flame to one of the fat little candles Mark gathered up from Roger's room (the ones he used to use to cook up his drug habit) and hoped Roger wouldn't notice. The wick catches, throwing the fear and pain etched into Roger's face into sharp relief.

Whom do you call out to when you're in over your head?

How do you pray for help when you've rejected everything else to come your way?

You light candles.

Mark can't see too much, but he sees enough. Roger's not lying. His eyes are wide open - and red-rimmed, because like Mark, he's barely slept all week - and fixed on Mark's.

"I'm sorry, Mark. ImsorryImsorryImsorry . . . you shouldn't-"

What Mark shouldn't be doing is allowing Roger to turn down his help.

"Yeah, I should. I should have done a lot more for you. Should have tried to get you clean months ago."

"I did this to myself," Roger says, bowing his head to rest on Mark's shoulder. "I shot up. I let April keep using. I wouldn't let you help me."

"It's fine-"

"No, it's not. I'm sorry, Mark. I'm a shitty friend."

Mark knows this is just the first step. It's going to take a lot more to keep Roger's head above water than just getting him to admit he fucked up. Roger has AIDS and AZT costs money. Mark supposes he'll get another messenger job and Roger will have to figure something out. There's the rent that Benny's let slide, thank goodness, but heat and electricity cost money, too.

"You screwed up, Roger. Now we fix it," Mark says.

He looks across the room to the blinking red numbers on his clock radio - September 30th, 12:01 am.

Yom Kippur.

Mark smiles as Roger breathes out an exhausted "all right". This is the first step of a long staircase, but it's one step more than the day before.

For the first time in six years, Mark hears the shofar.


End file.
